Wonderwall
by fishsticks and cream cheese
Summary: She packs up her things and runs. He locks up his heart and lies. Both are escape artists in their own right, who haven't seen each other since graduating Hogwarts. What happens when they collide? —George/Alicia (Open your mind, and give it a try!)


**Hi! **I've been swamped with university work lately, but I wanted to post something. _Wonderwall _is a story that I wrote over the summer this year, and I love it so much - I hope you will, too! It's George/Alicia - (what else would I write?) - and speaking of which, I won't be updating _Beauty and the Bad Boy _anymore. I do like it, but not everything about it, so I fully intend to rewrite it in the upcoming months. Stay tuned for that!

I hope you enjoy the first chapter of _Wonderwall. _If you're new to this pairing, I hope you come to grow as fond of it as I am. And let me know what you all think, please!

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><p><strong>. WONDERWALL .<strong>

_Through the door, here's the score,  
><em>_Never seen her here before_

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><p>"Alicia Spinnet" had blond hair. It was pin-straight, never a strand out of place.<p>

So she tossed it, made it wavy, charmed it dark brown, wore it up.

"Alicia Spinnet" had dozens of nice dresses. It was practically all she wore.

So she left them behind, bought simpler clothes.

"Alicia Spinnet" had a faint sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose.

So she dusted that region with makeup, blending it carefully into her skin.

"Alicia Spinnet" had blue eyes.

She loved her blue eyes.

And she tried – tried to use Muggle contact lenses, but every time she brought it anywhere within an inch of her cornea, she squeezed her eyes shut and couldn't bring herself to touch it.

So she bought glasses, a stylish pair of frames with unfixed lenses.

Then she took off.

…

"Happy birthday to you,

Happy _birth-_day_, _dear Ro-ger,

Happy birthday to you!"

Amid teasing applause, Roger Davies leaned forward to blow out the single candle on his enormous cake.

"Look at you," said George, grinning from across the bar. "You're a big boy now."

Roger stuck out his tongue at that, prompting George to turn to Lee Jordan and mutter, "Guess _not_."

"Barely twenty-one," said Anthony Rickett, "and already managing a successful business, I've never seen that."

George looked up indignantly. "What are Fred and I, fairy tales?"

Everyone laughed.

"Well, you're not in business anymore," Anthony pointed out, smirking.

"Temporarily," George shrugged. "Maybe I'll get back on it once Roger stops begging me for help."

"Oi, I don't force you to work here," Roger snapped, albeit fondly. "In fact, why don't you do me a favor and bugger off already?"

"Because you'd lose all your female customers," pointed out Lee, to which all the other guys looked equal parts impressed and scandalized, but laughing all the same.

Roger rolled his eyes and began to magically divide the cake into equal portions, levitating the slices around the bar to each of his friends.

George took his piece and left Lee talking to Roger while he took a seat at Harry, Ron, and Hermione's table.

"Wotcher, guys, didn't expect to see you three here tonight," he said, summoning forks to appear at the center of the table with a snap of his fingers.

"We weren't going to come," Hermione admitted, "because these two were supposed to be held up at the Ministry, but they surprised me."

"Yeah, we just tied up that case with the Armenian vampire," Ron explained. "It was a walk in the park."

"It took you four weeks," Hermione said, smirking at Ron knowingly.

George snickered. "Three weeks longer than any up-to-standard Auror would need, I imagine."

"It wasn't fair," Ron sulked, shoveling a heaping forkful of cake into his mouth. "He placed decoys! He planted fake trails!"

"Like any half-decent criminal on the run might," George said.

"Enough about that," said Harry, grinning. "How's working at this place been treating you, George?"

"It's been cool," said George, indifferently. "You meet some interesting characters, see some old faces once in a while. Can't compare it to running the joke shop, though."

The younger trio didn't respond, enjoying their food in respectful silence for Fred.

"Dad mentioned you've been thinking about finding an apartment," said Ron, regarding his brother carefully. "You're moving out again?"

George shrugged. "It was an idea, not a plan." After a pause, he added, "Don't feel like going back to the loft above the shop anymore."

The others seemed to understand.

"Mrs. Weasley won't like that," guessed Harry, though he smiled affectionately. "The Burrow's already pretty empty as it is."

"That's right, Charlie'll be moving out next month," Ron agreed.

"What?" Hermione said, around a mouthful of cake. "I didn't hear about that."

George raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you didn't? He proposed. Amy said yes."

"As if she would say anything else," scoffed Ron. "After eleven years together, asking the question isn't even necessary anymore."

"Their love story is cute," Hermione protested, somewhat wistfully. "I can't believe they've been dating since Hogwarts. That's amazing."

"It is," George agreed, with wry humor. "I don't even keep in touch with any girls from Hogwarts anymore."

Hermione exchanged glances with Harry and Ron, then said hesitantly, "Not even Angelina Johnson?"

The name of his late twin's ex-girlfriend from their time at school no longer fazed him like it once had. In actuality, very little about Fred's life fazed him anymore. Although the loss hadn't been easy on him, he'd made it a point to keep the grieving period short – because he didn't believe in grieving.

But it didn't make him miss his twin any less.

"Especially not Angelina Johnson."

"It's been about three years since you graduated, right?" said Harry. "She's probably different now." What George heard was: _she's probably over Fred now. _

"Harry's right," Hermione told him. "Everyone changes in three years, whether they mean it to happen or not. In fact, I bet you could come face-to-face with one of your old classmates one of these days, and you might not even realize it."

…

"Whoa," said George, staring out at her from behind the kitchen door. "Mind if I take her order?"

Roger rolled his eyes and snorted. "As long as you're _professional_ about it," he said.

George pretends to think about it, then says brightly, "No promises," and grabs the notepad on the counter, shoving through the door and to the other side.

The pretty girl lingered by the door, brushing stray pieces of brown hair out of her eyes. The waitress glanced up from rearranging chairs in the back corner, but George beat her to it.

"Evening, miss," he said confidently, beckoning her over to the bar. "Can I get you something to drink over here?"

Once she turned to look at him, her blue eyes widened momentarily behind the glasses, and something like recognition and fright flashed in them. But in the next breath both were gone, replaced with composure and a defensive guard.

"Water's fine," she said in dulcet tones, without smiling, as she sat down gingerly on a stool.

He thought the voice sounded somehow familiar, but he could swear that he'd never seen this girl before, so he shook it off and made a note on the paper. With a wave of his hand, he non-verbally charmed the hose of water behind the bar to fill a clean glass for her. "And to eat?"

The girl seemed to consider it for a moment, then she shook her head. "I'm not hungry. Thank you."

George, who had reflexively started writing the second she started talking, paused and wrinkled his brow. He lowered his quill and said, "Look, I don't run this place, but there's a policy here and I can't do anything about that. You can't just come in and get free water. That's loitering."

She bit her lip, thinking.

"Do you need a few minutes to look at the menu?" George asked, indicating with his quill the unopened menu in front of her.

With the smallest of smiles, quick and barely visible, she shook her head once more and told him, "No, just give me the house special."

"Good choice," George said, looking pleased as he scribbled it down. "Any allergies I should know about?"

"Mm. Shellfish."

"Got it." He made a note of it, then winked at her and headed back to the kitchen to relay the order.

"How'd it go, mate?" asked Roger, conducting a series of knives to chop various vegetables at once.

"Doesn't seem like she wants to tell much," George replied, shrugging as he slid the order across the counter toward Roger. "Kind of feeling like I know her voice from somewhere, though."

"Strange," remarked Roger, glancing over George's shoulder to see out the kitchen window. "She doesn't look like anyone we knew from school."

"Probably isn't," said George. "I'm tired. It's been a long shift. Don't blame me for imagining things."

"Oi, the shift's not over yet," Roger reminded him. "Until the last customer leaves, we can't close up."

George glanced at the clock while Roger began summoning the tools and utensils necessary to make his special.

"What kind of person walks into a bar _alone _past midnight on a Tuesday?"

"It's technically Wednesday now," Roger pointed out. "Early morning."

George rolled his eyes. "Never knew you were one to split hairs."

"Information is only useful at its most precise," Roger stated, grinning. "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."

"And Ravenclaws are overrated."

"Gryffindors are unmindful and rash."

"You picking a fight, hotshot?"

"Don't look at me, you started it."

With a shake of his head and a broad grin, George let the jokes drop. "Hey, Loony Lovegood was in Ravenclaw, wasn't she? What was she like?"

Roger paused to remember. "Never spoke to her much, she was – what – three years younger? Barking, though, that one. Had the wildest ideas."

George grimaced. "Like … in an amusing and kind of enjoyable way? Or—"

"Awkward and unbearable way," Roger finished. "Why do you ask?"

"My mum's been trying to set Ron up with her," George explained.

"Oh, he'll like that," Roger smirked. "Wasn't he the one with the short fuse?"

"He's a bit sensitive, yeah."

Roger laughed, then sobered and said, "You might wanna go check up on that girl outside. She looks kind of dodgy to me, coming in at this hour and all."

"On it."

George returned to the bar area, finding that she was still there, sipping at her water, not even bothering to look up even as he came near. She was absently touching her hair, as though unused to wearing it up, the glass of water before her untouched.

"You should really glance around once in a while, pretend to admire the décor," he said lightly. "Or I'd even suggest just taking a sip or something. Might make you seem a little less shifty, you know?"

The girl blinked up at him, bemused.

"Oh," she said, her voice throaty and unprepared. "Um, yeah. I'll keep that in mind."

George snickered. "You seem kinda jittery," he observed. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yes … thanks."

He lowered his elbows onto the bartop and looked down at her half-finished glass of water. "You should come back on a Friday night or something. My mate, Roger, he gets live music in here every weekend."

"Come back?" she repeated, looking dubious.

"What, you're not coming back?" George asked, glancing up at her with a fake pout. "Even after having met me?"

That got a quiet laugh out of her. He felt that familiar satisfaction of amusing a girl stir in his chest.

"I might … but," she told him, smiling lightly, "I wouldn't count on it."

"Okay," he said back, staring into her eyes sadly but intently. They are, he noticed, a very clear, pale shade of blue. "I understand."

"I'll think about it," she said, grinning at him. "Put away those puppy-dog eyes already."

A bell sounded from behind the doors, and George came to attention, summoning her finished order from the kitchen. As he caught it in the air and slid it neatly right beneath her, he leaned in closer and said, "I'm no puppy-dog, miss – I'm a wolf."

Her eyes shot up from her food to his face, which was grinning roguishly at her before he turned away and retreated to the kitchen.

...

Alicia walked down the street, turning into an alleyway at the very end. She leaned against the wall, laying her palms flat on the cold stones behind her and leaning her head back until it was against something solid.

_Come back_? There was no way she was going back there. Not once she'd realized the bartender had been George Weasley, and his coworker – or, more likely, the owner of the place – was Roger Davies. If any one of them recognized her, she would be in even more danger of being tracked down.

She took a deep, shaky breath and glanced at her wristwatch. It was already two in the morning. She'd left the bar a half hour ago, which had been as soon as she'd finished her food, not bothering to wait for George to appear behind the bar again to collect her money (though she did leave him much more gold than she should've).

_I can't go walking the streets all night, _she thought to herself, panic settling in the bottom of her stomach. She was hesitant to use her Patronus to communicate with anyone from the wizarding world, afraid that were it sighted, she'd be given away.

On top of that, the handbag she was shouldering felt like an anvil hanging off her body. She'd charmed all her necessities to fit inside, and was practically carrying around the equivalent of a suitcase. Playing Quidditch at school might've conditioned her arms well, but not _this _well.

The sound of a wailing cat striding past woke Alicia's every sense again.

_I can't just dawdle here, _she reminded herself, sighing as she picked herself up off the wall and reluctantly walked back onto the street. _For now, I'm going to go back to Muggle London. _

Alicia was a well-bred woman of above-average class, but she couldn't afford to spend her money frivolously now. She had a great deal of gold in her wizarding vault at Gringotts, but none of that was of any use to her in Muggle London.

_It'll be fine, _she told herself resolutely. _I can endure a few nights in one of those everyman motels. _

Tomorrow, she decided, she would figure out what she was going to do, where she was going to go.

The motel was dark and dodgy, but she preferred it this way. She fell soundly asleep the second her head met the pillow, if only because she was so intent on finding escape, any form of it, from her life.

The following morning, Alicia awoke to grey skies. It was nearly noon by the time she finally cleaned and got dressed. She headed down to the lobby, still carrying all of her belongings in her extremely heavy handbag – she didn't want to take the risk of being without anything she might need to run with at a moment's notice.

Another thing she didn't want to risk was Apparating into an area where she might be seen. Although she looked sufficiently different from the Alicia Spinnet she'd always been, she was still unwilling to take chances, especially considering the nature of what she was running from.

"Taxi," Alicia called out, raising a hand as it pulled up to the curb in front of her.

She climbed into the backseat. "Charing Cross Road, please," she said. "Anywhere on that street will be fine."

The cabbie dropped her off at the corner, and the walk to the hidden Leaky Cauldron was short and all too familiar. Alicia felt a chill of dread as she slipped inside the pub, finding little relief even at the realization that nobody she recognized was present.

"Anything to eat or drink, miss?" asked Tom, grinning toothily at her as she entered.

"Just passing through," she said, smiling. She was finding that faking smiles came quite easily to her now. When had that happened? "Have a nice day, Mr. Tom."

He didn't ask her how she knew his name – everyone knew Tom the landlord. "You as well, miss."

Once in Diagon Alley, Alicia began to shop. She hated that she had to do her shopping in the wizarding world, but the harsh truth was that she had far more wizard gold to spend than Muggle money. She would need every last pound she had access to just to cover her accommodation expenses in the Muggle world, as long as she could.

"I like that one on you," said the boy at Twilfitt and Tatting's. He looked young, but not much younger than herself – probably no more than eighteen or nineteen.

"Really?" Alicia murmured, adjusting the sleeves. "It flops a bit around the shoulder – like, right here … but I'm certain it's just my figure—"

"Your torso is on the narrow side, I think," confirmed the boy. "That can easily be remedied." He held the cloth at her shoulder and slid a pin in place. "How's that?"

"Oh, better," Alicia said approvingly, regarding her reflection. "Could I ask you to do the same for the other ones I've picked out, too?"

"Absolutely."

With a wave of his wand, he levitated the small bundle of other garments Alicia had chosen and moved them to the counter. Walking behind it, he scribbled a quick note in shorthand for the seamstress.

"How would you like us to contact you when they're done?"

Alicia paused, her mind racing. Ideally, they shouldn't contact her at all. She shouldn't allow herself to receive anything that could be traced or followed.

"Just give me a date," Alicia said.

He nodded, unfazed. "They should be ready for pick-up on Friday."

…

"Are you not feeling well, dear?" Molly Weasley asked, looking anxious as she glanced from George's plate to his face. "Have some more food."

George leaned back in his chair and stretched his hands behind him before standing up and taking his plate to the sink. "Don't worry about me, Mum, I'm fine. Gotta get going to Roger's, I'm already late."

"Hey, some of my colleagues have been asking: when are you going to open up the shop again?" asked Bill, around a mouthful of potatoes.

George paused at the kitchen sink, leaning against the counter and pretending to think. "When I get around to it," he said evasively. "Roger asked me to stick around a bit longer."

"I never thought you'd be the sort to prioritize someone else's business over your own," Ginny said. "Roger can handle his own bar, you know."

George didn't voice it, but the true reason he was reluctant to open up the joke shop again was because it meant sorting through the old merchandise, the products that he and Fred had created together, stepping foot back in that building that he and Fred had rented out together, looking around at all those shelves and colors and posters he and Fred had dreamed up together.

"It's been on my mind," George lied, with an easy shrug. "I might get on it later this year. Right now, though, I gotta run."

Lifting a hand in a lazy wave, he turned on the spot and Disapparated with a _crack_!

"Oh, there you are," said Roger, looking up from counting beer mugs behind the bar. "You're fourteen minutes late, my friend."

"Shouldn't matter, you pay me a lot less than your other employees," George scoffed, doing up the top couple buttons on his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

Roger looked proud of himself. "Friends' discount," he smirked.

"Arse."

"Behave yourselves," said a smiling Rose Dwyer, one of their part-time waitresses. Rose was two years older than them. George greeted her with a nod of his head before turning back to Roger.

"Alright, I'll take over," he told him, hoisting himself smoothly up onto the bartop and sliding down into the other side.

"You do that again and you'll really be sacked," Roger joked, pretending to punch George in the ribs.

"Roger, did you finish that catering order yet?" asked Rose, shaking her head at their banter.

"I'll get right on that," Roger said, rolling his eyes as he spun on his heel and disappeared behind the kitchen doors.

"So how's it going, Rosie," George said absently, as he started counting out leaves of mint from the tin. Rose was Roger's soon-to-be sister-in-law, and she was just as fond of George as she was of Roger.

"Oh, it's been dull," she said, a little too brightly to mean it. "My folks just went home to Brisbane two nights ago, so it's been a little lonely. You know."

A derisive voice in George's mind urged him to tell her that she didn't know loneliness like he did.

"Cool, cool," he said in a slow drawl, pretending not to have heard properly.

At that moment, the bell on the door tinkled in alert of an arriving customer. Rose was by the entrance in a flash, ready to attend to them.

The customer in question was a rather elderly and haggard businessman, who looked in dire need of a good drink. Sure enough, he passed over Rose's offer of a table in favor of a barstool.

"What'll it be?" asked George, with a practiced, easy grin.

The man didn't return the smile. "Scotch on the rocks."

"Coming right up."

Roger, being Muggle-born, had designed his bar to appeal to magical folk with all kinds of tastes, including those with a penchant for Muggle drinks. There was a variety of imported Muggle liquor, along with the common wizarding alcohol, and one or two exotic brands from foreign countries. _It's like a high-end Leaky Cauldron, _Roger had laughed. _Genius, right?_

"Long day, pal?" asked George conversationally, sliding the glass of scotch over to the customer.

He caught it in his large, rough hand, which George silently noticed was covered with callouses and cuts.

"Long week," the man said shortly. Once he had taken a sip of his drink, he added, "I've been tailing this bleeder all week, see."

George raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes. "Law Enforcement?" he guessed.

"Yeah. Auror."

With a chuckle, George leaned down and folded his arms across the bartop. "Wouldn't you know it, my baby brother's getting there. He's in training, with Harry Potter."

The man studied George's face for a moment, then it clicked. "Weasley," he grunted knowingly. "You'll be Arthur's son, too, then?"

George nodded. "George Weasley." He extended his hand.

"Gawain Robards, Auror Office Head."

"So who's the perp, and what'd he do?"

"Classified information," said Robards, not unkindly. Not missing a beat, he asked, "Does your brother normally let you in on this stuff?"

"Nah," lied George. "Just thought I'd see whether you'd bite."

From behind Robards' figure, George was vaguely aware of Rose greeting other customers as they entered the building.

"You'll get the story once we head him off and arrest him," assured Robards. "The _Prophet_'llbe all over it. Shouldn't be too long, now."

After he'd finished his scotch, Robards took out a handful of coins from his coat pocket and dropped them on the counter.

"Done already?" said George. "Go on, I'll make you another. Let's talk."

"Best be getting on home to my daughters," explained Robards, with the closest thing to a smile that George had seen from him yet. "Barely seen 'em, all week."

George inclined his head, taking away the empty glass and summoning the gold into his pocket. "Won't keep you from that, then," he grinned. "Take it easy, sir."

"Thanks." Robards stood up. "Take care, son."

Once Robards had gone, Roger appeared from behind.

"Who was that?"

"Head of Auror Office," George said, still holding the empty glass. "_Scourgify_."

"Oh, fancy," Roger said, looking impressed. "Tipped well, I hope?"

George withdrew the coins from his pants and mentally summed them in a second. "Better than most," he admitted, smirking as he pocketed them again. "Still nothing compared to Miss Mystery though."

Rose, who had graciously taken to wiping up Robard's place at the bar for George, glanced up at the name. "Miss Mystery?" she asked, curious but cautious. "Who's that?"

"It was a customer from Tuesday," said Roger.

"It was technically Wednesday," George reminded him, with a serious face. "Early morning."

"Ha … You think you're so clever, don't you?"

"Information is only useful at its most precise," recited George, mock-sternly.

Roger's mouth twitched. "You're sacked."

"Oh, I don't think so," George said, grinning broadly. "That's termination without cause, and I'm just learning lessons from my boss like a good little boy."

Rose interrupted. "So what was so mysterious about her?"

"A girl coming into a bar on her own at one a.m. on a weeknight?" George pointed out. "Kinda strange, don't you think?"

"You weren't complaining, she left you a nice fat tip," grinned Roger.

Rose smiled hesitantly at Roger's teasing. "Maybe because she was smitten by you," she suggested, looking over at George.

George shrugged. "Well … she wasn't rude or anything," he began, "but I got the feeling that she didn't intend to come here again."

"If that's an implicit confession that my customers don't want to return after meeting you," Roger joked, "then that really is grounds for termination."

Just then, the bell on the door tinkled once more as a group of three walked through. Rose straightened up and turned around to greet them.

"Whatever," said George, ending the discussion. "I just don't think we'll be seeing her around here again."

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><p>TBC<p>

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><p><strong>Reviews appreciated! <strong>


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